


I Couldn't Stand the Person Inside Me

by aprofessorbhaer



Series: Who is in Control? (AKF) [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Acephobia, Aromantic, Asexual Character, Asexuality, Asexuality Spectrum, Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Insomnia, LGBTQ Character, LGBTQ Themes, Medication, Men of Letters Bunker, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Parent-Child Relationship, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Queer Character, Queer Themes, Reader-Insert, References to Depression, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts, Swearing, Trans, Trans Character, Transgender, Transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-20
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 07:11:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10381341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprofessorbhaer/pseuds/aprofessorbhaer
Summary: A queer/trans oc/reader talks to Sam about their depression and their parents' rejection.





	

“Talk to me.”

“You don’t mean that, Sam. You can’t mean that.”

“Sure I do.”

“No, you don’t, Sam, because if I did start talking about it, I wouldn’t be able to stop.”

Sam clasped his hands in his lap. “Sounds to me like you really do need to talk about it, then.”

I laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. “Oooooh, where do I start, Sam? Well, I hear the shrinks always want you to start with your childhood and your family, so let’s start there, shall we? My childhood was great. My parents loved me, I had a good home, I went to school and got good grades. No one close to me died, there wasn’t some traumatic event that I can cite as the root of all my problems.”

I took a deep breath. Sam remained silent. “So, yeah, my life was good. I got into a great college, my parents had saved up enough money for me to afford it, along with some scholarships I earned. I was set to have a great life. Sure, I didn’t know what I would major in, I was gonna be living away from my family for the first time, and I was scared shitless, but I was told that was normal for someone my age.”

I paused again, trying to gather my thoughts. “The first thing I noticed was that I wasn’t eating as much anymore. Then, I noticed that the reason I wasn’t eating as much was because I just wasn’t getting hungry. And let me tell you, that freaked me the fuck out. I didn’t know what was going on. So I started making myself eat more, but it didn’t help. I just ended up feeling sick. So I figured, what’s a skipped meal or two? People are always talking about college students living off ramen and coffee. So I ate when I could, and tried to forget about it.

“The next thing I noticed was that I had trouble concentrating. Studying and schoolwork was a lot harder for me than it had ever been in high school. I had this irrational fear of starting new assignments because I was worried they wouldn’t be good enough. So my procrastination got really bad. For a while, I assumed it was just because I was a lazy teenager, a bad student. I heard people complain about my generation enough that it seemed plausible.”

I swallowed, trying to stay calm and keep my voice level. “But while these realizations were going on, other things were happening, too. Like I was sleeping more than usual. I needed more sleep, and when I got around to it, I overslept more often. I had trouble making myself get out of bed in the morning. It was like, if I let myself, I could literally spend the whole day in bed. And it scared the hell out of me. Because I’ve always needed more sleep than other people I know, but this was a new level, even for me.

“And on top of that, I was tired all the time. No matter how much sleep I got, it would be a toss-up on how hard it would be to go about my day. I didn’t notice right away, because my parents always told me that teenagers need more sleep, and being tired constantly was normal, too. It’d eventually pass.

“But it wasn’t just sleeping, or being tired. It was also a feeling of…emptiness. Like, sometimes, I wouldn’t exist for hours at a time. I’d read fanfiction, or watch YouTube videos, just for something to do. I needed to hold on to something, otherwise my mind was blank.

“But it was a loud blank, you know? I don’t think I had ever really understood ‘deafening silence’ until those late nights in my dorm room, across from my roommate who had no idea what was going through my head. Shit, neither did I.”

“Because it didn’t make sense. At the same I felt empty, I felt…overwhelmed, too. Like I was removed from the world, but I also felt everything everyone else was feeling. And how do you talk to someone about that? It sounded crazy! ‘Course, maybe I was.”

“But that isn’t even the half of it, Sam! Because eventually, I went in for treatment. I got diagnosed with depression, I got pills to take, I got a psychiatrist to talk to about my feeeeelings. I even told my parents that I had depression. They took it well; they even believed me.”

“So, that should be the end of the story, right? I went into therapy, it was a long hard road but I’m doing better now.” I shook my head, a weak chuckle escaping my throat. “But I’m not. I’m not doing better. Because everyone treats me like I’m functioning when really I’m breaking down inside. Because my family doesn’t understand that some days I can be productive, and some days, it’s a victory just to get out of bed. Because they get tired of ‘reminding’ me to shower, to brush my teeth, to eat, even though it’s not a question of memory; it’s a question of what’s the point? Tomorrow, I’ll have to do it all over again. It’s a question of prioritizing everything I want to do that day because I know I don’t have enough energy for all of it.”

I hunched in on myself, drawing my legs up to my chest, and wrapping my arms around them. “I can’t cry anymore, and I WANT to. I want to let it out, and scream, and get ANGRY about it, but I don’t want to bother anyone else. I tell my family one small symptom, and it scares them so much that I can’t tell them anything else. I can’t talk about how I’m trapped inside my head, how no one hates me more than I hate myself, how I finally understand why someone would commit suicide. I never understood how anyone could do that, before I was sick. And I am sick. I’m sick in the head, and no one sees it but me, but it affects everyone. My family reminds me that it affects them, too. And I know that. But I can’t tell them that I think about dying every day, I think about if they would be better off without me. I know it would hurt them, but would it still be better for them, in the end?

“On good days, I can be rational about it. On bad days, which are most days now, I know I’m being irrational and I still can’t stop. That’s not even the worst of it. The worst is…I came out as asexual, aromantic, and transgender to my parents. And they don’t…agree. They…they think that I’ll grow out of it, that I’m just experimenting in college, that I’ve been led astray by the wrong kind of people. My mother told me that I’ll always be her daughter, that she won’t change even though I have, and that she believes you’re born a man or a woman and she won’t be bullied for what she believes in.”

I could feel the blockage in my throat and the headache behind my eyes, telling me I’d be crying right now if I could. “They say they love me, but how can you love someone you don’t accept? That you don’t _see_? She says she does both, but I don’t believe her anymore. I know she didn’t sign up for having me as a child, and I wish I could give her the daughter she wants. God, I wish I could give my family the person I used to be, when I wasn’t queer, or depressed, or trans. But I can’t. I stay up at night, because I have insomnia in addition to oversleeping, and I wish for them to have the girl they want. But every day I wake up, and I’m still me. And I’m _sorry_ for that. I’m sorry for being me. It would have been easiest if I had just never had been born in the first place. But since that’s not possible, my only option is to just…live. Live with being the family disappointment, live with the desire to not be alive. Because I won’t commit suicide, I promised them I won’t. It would hurt them too much, it would be the most selfish thing I could ever do: end my suffering by adding to theirs.

“And I know that I don’t just have my family; I also have friends, other people who care about me, like you. And I try to keep you in mind whenever I’m wondering if…me living is really what’s best for everyone else. It’s just so damn HARD, Sam. I don’t know how you do it. I’ve only been diagnosed with depression for a year, and I just want to give up already. I don’t even know the half of what you’ve been through, and what I do know still amazes me. And here I am, some whiny child crying for attention.

“I _try_ to reach out to friends. I try to ask for help when I need it. But it seems like the world expects it to be a one-time thing. On TV, they only show the scene where the character makes the first phone call, and their friend answers. They never show the character calling the friend at a later point, and the friend not picking up. It’s always for a good reason: most of the times I reach out, it’s late at night because that’s when the thoughts are the worst. No one is awake, or if they are, they’re busy. And I don’t want to bother them. I know I’ll get through, like I always do…until the day I don’t. Because all the help I’ve had to ask for has made me think that I’m just too much damn effort. I’m not worth the trouble I put people through. They always deny it when I say that, but they don’t know that for every time I called someone, I had three bad nights where I didn’t.

“And it’s not fair to hold that against them, because they don’t know. That’s the whole fucking point. I can’t be upset that they don’t know something that I’m keeping from them. Except that I am. I’m so fucking HURT that no one sees how broken I really am, even though I hide it whenever they’re around. I don’t know how to stop. I don’t know how to open myself fully to someone. Because I did that with my parents: they know me best, I told them who and what I am, and they didn’t want it. They don’t want me the way I am. They need time to adjust, or whatever. But time may not be something I have. How can I expect anyone to accept me and love me fully, if the people who are supposed to do that anyway, unconditionally, don’t? How can I ask that of anyone? 

“My therapist told me that my expectations are too high: I want someone to always be there for me. And it’s true. It’s unfair for me to want it, but I CAN’T FUCKING STOP. I fantasize about a person who will hold me at night, and hug me, and want to be with me. Who won't get tired of me. But I can’t control what someone else wants.”

I tried to laugh, but it ended up sounding like I was choking instead. “Do you see why I didn’t want to talk about it, Sam? I’m so fucking pathetic, and now you know that, too. The only reason I told you is because I’m leaving in the morning. I’m sorry to burden you with the problems. There’s nothing you can do to help, so it was selfish to tell you. You’re too kind-hearted to not want to help people. But I’M the problem here, and I can’t…I just can’t.” My voice finally broke, and I buried my face in my knees, not wanting to see Sam’s reaction.

There was heart-stopping silence, then I felt warm, strong arms surrounding me and pressing me to a broad, firm chest. “You are worthy of love and acceptance.” His low voice was close to my ear, his breath stirring my hair. “I love and accept you, and that includes every part of your identity: queer, trans, whatever. Dean feels the same way. Your parents’ inability to see past who they want you to be and see the wonderful, amazing person you are has NOTHING to do with you and EVERYTHING to do with them and their narrow minds. I see you as you are, and I wouldn’t change a thing. Forget about leaving in the morning; if you think you’re imposing otherwise, you’re not. Dean and I are here for you, whatever you need, just like I told you when we met. We would miss you if you were gone, and we’re so glad that you’re here with us right now. Stay for as long as you like.”

I would have probably protested, but Sam reached over and turned off the bedroom light, and I decided falling asleep in his arms was too good an opportunity to pass up.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not okay. But I hope reading this fic helps someone else, because writing it helped me.


End file.
